Finding a Balance
by JennySweetie
Summary: Bella is a talented athlete who dreams of soccer stardom. Injuries and insecurities threaten to tear her down. Can she find a happy balance between living her dream and the only man who can save her from herself? Bad summary, better story.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One:

Broken

"Great game Bella!" Shouted Anthony from the bar overlooking the indoor field. "Five goals, two assists and no broken bones… that's one hell of a show Bells!"

"Heh, thanks Toni, all in a nights work I guess", I smiled at him, slinging my soccer bag farther onto my shoulder. "Gotta get going guys, see you next week. Great game everyone". I waved at my teammates as I hurriedly left the soccer facility.

Getting home was the only thing occupying my mind. Even while playing tonight, I was totally distracted. My thoughts surrounded today's date and its significance.

Today is notification day.

Today is notification day.

Today is notification day.

The chant repeated in my mind, reminding me of the dread I was going to meet when I walked through the doors of my home.

Throughout the entire game tonight, my body had moved of its own accord. My body went through the motions; dribbling, passing, shooting, and tackling. Most of the game I didn't even acknowledge the other players and usually I'm a vocal player.

Really vocal. The refs get on my ass most games.

I knew I'd have to deal with my teammates tomorrow. My voicemail was going to be full of bitching, complaining and aggravation. Even though we won the game, our goalie fucking sucked ass. Usually, after every game we get some pitchers of beer, sit in the viewing area, drink and argue away the bullshit that happened during the last ninety minutes. Somewhere along the lines it changed. Somehow, regardless of the fact that I was not the captain, the team members always complained to me.

Yeah… like I could make a damn difference.

I passed on all the bullshit to Ross, THE CAPTAIN, and then proceeded to bitch him out because I was bitched out. It's a vicious cycle, and I usually get my kicks hearing Ross squirm through the phone line. I didn't mind the responsibility of managing a team, but frankly, it's a recreation league and even I… soccer freak, didn't take it that seriously.

Seems like soccer wasn't just about soccer anymore, I missed the freedom and the fun of the sport.

You see, that's what started this ball rolling in the first place.

I love soccer.

Eh… that might be a slight understatement. There's a fine line between what you would call a soccer fan, and what someone might lovingly refer to as a soccer hooligan.

When I was a little girl, my mother Renee tried to get me to play with Barbies and make-up. I wasn't having any of that. When my mom and my dad, Charlie, were walking me home from school when we lived in Arizona I saw my first real soccer pitch. It was the most clean and most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A fragrance drifted out from the field and hit my nostrils. It smelled like home. It smelled like the sweetest candy, fresh cut lawn, air dried sheets, and the faintest mixture of pine and sunshine. It was mouth watering. I begged my parents for a soccer ball for my birthday. I'm not the begging, bright-as-sunshine-gift-recipient. Quite the opposite actually, but God… I had never wanted anything more than that soccer ball in my life. After I tore the harsh pink paper from the blatantly obvious spherical shape that sat waiting for me on my kitchen table, my parents had a hard time keeping me inside and off any flat surface I could kick a ball. Renee pitched a fit every Christmas because she had to stomach purchasing gifts that I would actually like, but there was always that last ditch effort. Amidst the new soccer jerseys, new shin guards and more blatantly spherical wrapped gifts, something extravagantly feminine always wound up in my pile.

After I got my first ball, I spent years envisioning myself as a soccer superstar. I would dribble down and around the fields, scoring against nothing, but having the time of my life nonetheless.

It was just a hobby until I had an epiphany. On the one and only career day that I ever had in elementary school, we had to write an essay about what we wanted to be when we grew up. I hadn't actually thought about anything like that before. I didn't have a playschool cooking set or doctor's kit as a child, and I didn't have a mini fun laboratory. I just had my soccer ball. So when the teacher asked our young minds to ponder what we thought we would like to do, I was truly stunned into silence. Could I play soccer and make money?

And so my essay took shape. I wanted to play soccer professionally. This was before the women's league was actually a reality. I still envisioned myself as one of the boys, so I didn't think anything of it when I only watched the men play matches on the television. I always played soccer with the boys, and I never met any other girls who played, so I automatically assumed that girls just didn't like it and that I was a minority. My teacher gave me grief about choosing that as a profession. She told me that soccer was just something people did for fun, and I couldn't possibly be serious about being a professional athlete.

It reminded me of "A Christmas Story", the movie where Ralphie gets a C on the paper he was told to write about what he wanted for Christmas.

Could I shoot my eye out with a soccer ball?

I was as likely to shoot my eye out as the teacher was as likely to give me a passing grade.

I didn't listen to my teacher, and I continued to imagine myself as a soccer superstar. Stardom became my goal. As I grew up, my dreams slowly started taking on a more definite shape. I wanted to play international soccer, and I wanted to play the best in the world.

So… many, many, many years ago I threw myself over the line that separated the fans from the fanatics. With a goal in mind, I set off running at full speed.

I never played for a traveling league, and I never went to a soccer academy. My parents couldn't afford it. And unfortunately, my high school only acquired women's soccer my senior year. As a result, I was only able to play for an actual team for one year.

I was a glorious season.

During the final game at the state championship, I scored two of the three goals and caught the eye of a University of Connecticut scout. He invited me to fly out to Connecticut for a tryout with the team. If all went well, I would be given a full scholarship to one of the biggest competitors in the Division I league of NCAA Women's soccer.

I drove home quickly after meeting with the scouts to tell my parents about what had happened at the game, and about we could have our shot at stardom. They were of course, overjoyed. My mom, Renee, always told me that I was an extraordinary athlete. A tom boy. She even would go as far as telling me that my toy boyish exterior was the reason so many guys befriended me. Renee claimed that I had a secret 'in' with their exclusive 'man club'.

There was always a tube of clear lip gloss in my soccer bag.

I never put it there.

So what did I do after getting a try out? I was a great player, but I wanted to be the best. So, I practiced hard.

Really fucking hard.

Too hard.

I joined a few indoor leagues so that I could practice with a team after the fall season (my only season) of soccer ended at my high school. Soccer came naturally, but because of bureaucratic bullshit at my high school, I was jipped out of 4 years of playing time.

I couldn't dance.

I couldn't jump rope.

I couldn't really do much really.

But I could play soccer really well.

Whenever I played, whenever I touched the ball, everything around me disappeared. It faded away and I was in total control. Time slowed, and I could quite literally make anything happen. The soccer ball, as cheesy as it sounds, became an extension of my body.

I wasn't having fun unless I was playing soccer, and stepping onto any field was like returning to Mecca. The game was always a battle waiting to be won on fields of glory. Playing against an unknown, or even better… a known opponent, and winning the war was a complete thrill. I worked myself into a frenzy when my opponents got frustrated at themselves when they couldn't keep up.

It was such an addictive rush.

The indoor leagues helped me become a better team player. They helped me anticipate counter attacks, forward movement and I developed an instinctive feel for where my teammates had positioned themselves on the pitch, and where they were moving to.

But the indoor leagues turned out to be my greatest downfall.

Two weeks before my trial at UConn, I had an indoor game. I was feeling great. It was going to be my last game before I took some time off and cleared my head in preparation for the big day.

Fifteen minutes into the game, I blew out my right knee.

I never thought that three little 'popping' sounds could drastically alter the course of someone's life. As it turned out, I was quickly enlightened.

My trial was gone, my parents were furious, and I sank into a very deep and bottomless depression.

My new knee cost me fifty thousand dollars and three of the most painful years of my life.

I had never truly felt pain until I had my swollen, bloodied and stitched up knee forcefully bent in an effort to break up scar tissue a mere forty eight hours post-operation after a knee reconstruction. My first physical therapy appointment was a complete blur of pain and vomit.

The subsequent weeks at therapy worked kind of like an assembly line, and if I wasn't the one biting down on a piece of wood to keep from both screaming out in sheer agony and clenching my jaw so tight that I would shatter my teeth, it might have been kind of interesting to watch.

As it happened, it was the furthest thing from interesting, and if had had a bomb at the time, I would have blown that building sky high. I would never wish that pain upon my worst enemy.

While the physical therapists bent my knee, tears poured down my cheeks and I screamed so hard that my body forced itself to react. Most of the time the reaction was dry heaves, but sometimes… sometimes I'd actually scream so loud and so hard that little blood vessels in my eyes would pop. So not only would I bleed from the massive incision on my knee, I was also spewing bleed out of my eye ball.

Bella: 0, Life: 1.

Awesome.

Satan's spawns repeated their bending and breaking until they were completely satisfied with the amount of movement that I had regained.

If I didn't know before that, which I sure as hell didn't, all physical therapists were sadists.

Worst. Revelation. Ever.

After a few weeks with physical therapy, I got a handle on my own recovery. I couldn't really walk, but I also couldn't afford to keep paying fifty dollars per training sessions. So not only did I get the sick and twisted kind of therapist, they charged a shit load of money for their fun and games. My dad was the town sheriff and my mom was a photographer. Middle class all the way. So, I took it upon myself to finish my rehabilitation.

Slowly, the months passed. I could walk, but I couldn't run.

More weeks passed. I could run… albeit very slowly and really it was more of a slow controlled jog, but it was more than walking.

Two years later, I was practically fully recovered and itching… jumping out of my skin, to touch a footie ball and to get back on the field.

Throughout my rehab I attended college from home. I went through it at an extremely accelerated pace. It only took me 3 years to graduate with a degree in Psychology. I finished so quickly because I didn't really have anything else to do, and thinking about soccer made me depressed. So I threw myself into school work as a distraction.

But the best part about this tangent is that three years after my surgery, I could play again.

I threw myself right back into my obsession and played constantly. I felt that since the boat had sailed on my college career, I had to get back the fuck up and play again competitively.

I needed to.

My sanity would no longer be satisfied by just watching on the sidelines, and with each minute ticking by, I could feel my dreams slowly slipping away.

So I did the only thing that I could think of. I joined up with an indoor soccer league and began playing again. Slowly my life started to come together; I even started dating a fellow player. He was my first boyfriend. I never really paid any mind to boys growing up. I was too obsessed with playing soccer to really notice their advances. I also didn't pay too much attention to the way I looked. I was boring, and absolutely ordinary. I played plenty of soccer with boys, and by way I made lots of friends. I never had many girlfriends, and in school many would give me the cold shoulder because I was friends with all the guys. When the girls in my classes wanted to find out snippets of info on the latest jock, they would come to me. I was a tom boy, and by extension not a threat to any of them. That was ok though, because I didn't really want a boyfriend. I didn't know how to act around boys when we weren't talking about sports. So I avoided those unsafe conversations, and steered everything around the latest game report or prospective wins and losses.

Don't get me wrong, I thought there were a few cute guys in high school, and I did go to prom, but I don't think I ever 'saw' myself with any of them. Why would they want me, boring and brown Bella, when they could have beautiful, blond and busty babes. I was anything but blond and busty, and I had come to terms with my station in life. I went on a few dates here and there, mostly with guys who didn't go to my school, and I received my first kiss when I was 14. Not only did he slobber all over my face, he tried to shove his hands up my shirt.

Yeahhhhh, no. I wasn't having any of that. He wasn't even that good looking. But I sure as hell wasn't going to have my first time, doing anything, in his parents' basement, sweaty from a soccer game, and kissing a guy I didn't even like that much.

Thanks, but no thanks.

I wasn't a knock out, so I figured that instead of throwing myself at guys, I'd just concentrate on what I was good at. So my obsession as a girl was soccer and not sex.

But rejoining the indoor soccer league introduced me to James and my first significant relationship. After I started dating James, I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach. He was always touching me when I didn't want him too. But it was worse than that. They weren't the loving caresses I had dreamt of. He was harsh and brash. Not loving and tender at all.

In the back of my mind there was a gremlin dancing around smirking at me. His facial expressions told me blatantly not to get comfortable with anything that was going on.

I usually just flipped off the gremlin on a regular basis, and tossed aside the uneasy feelings that I was getting.

Strange enough about the Gremlin, I know. But what really got under my skin after a while into the relationship with James… was just that. James. He was a fucking looker. Short blond hair, big blue eyes and a devastatingly hot soccer body. He was a phenomenol soccer play, and I think that because he was so talented, his personality left a lot to ask for. It's the same old story, prince charming in the beginning, and an ass in the end.

James did not fit the image of the man I wanted to fall in love with. Of course I wanted him to be handsome and I wanted my prince charming to be smart, intelligent, extremely athletic and funny. But more than that, I wanted a spark. I wanted to feel a pull towards him that was completely unavoidable. I guess I was looking for my soul mate. But of course, I didn't have time to dedicate to any of that. I was focused and ready to rehabilitate. Boys and men weren't going to distract me. Not that I was really much of a distraction for them. I'd rather fade into the background then have to deal with a guy like James again.

I had a nagging feeling that something wasn't clicking into place in my life.

Sure as shit, the fates had not finished with me yet.

Oh, the hilarious wenches.

Two things happened on one of the worst nights of my life.

One, I found a picture of James and a red haired woman fucking in a cruise ship cabin. He took a cruise to Alaska two weeks prior to that fateful night. The one and only cruise he had ever been on. I called him out on it, and the monster reared his ugly head. James told me that I was worthless. He said that I was a nobody, and that I would never find anyone who would love me they way that I wanted to be loved. James told me that I was not good enough for anyone and that I was pathetic for continuing to hope to become a professional soccer player. James was my first. He was my first boyfriend and he was my first lover. When I gave that piece of myself to him, I was jaded by the facade that he had created in my mind. I gave him a little piece of myself, and because of that, he had an uncanny effect on the way that I felt about myself. If I wasn't good enough for him, how could I ever be good enough for anyone else?

His harsh words echoed in my mind. They seemed so familiar. I was reminded of the night my mother told me how much of a failure I was. It was a shame I played on a team with him, and still had a game that night.

I should have just left after I confronted him. I should have just left after the memories of the cruel words were dredged up and caused me to be distracted for that fraction of a moment in time.

I was such an idiot for not leaving.

Two, during the game after our confrontation, James became even more vicious. He screamed at me on the field and embarrassed me by shouting obscenities when I would miss a shot. He pushed me against the boards circling the field, and in front of everyone he told me that I was a waste of space, and I didn't deserve to play. I was completely shaken by the event. He may have been an ass, but he never went as far as physically harming me. The incident left me shaken for the duration of the game. He totally fucked with my head.

I had a break away with the ball, and I was winding up to take a shot. There were no defenders around me, only James, who had followed up behind me to give me an out if I needed it. My left foot was planted on the ground, my body was propelled forward, ready to transfer the movement to the ball, and my right foot was cocked back and ready to fire.

It really only happened within a fraction of a second. But the repercussions would last for the rest of my life.

James flew from my left side into my body. He slide tackled me. His left foot connected with my knee. All I could do was look down and watch my knee bend in at an inhuman angle.

Again, with the fucking popping.

I fell to the floor screaming. The only thought pulling me away from the pain was, 'NOT AGAIN!'. I begged God to have some sort of mercy on me. I begged him to be playing some kind of sick joke. I blacked out after sobbing into the turf on the field. I didn't come to for almost an hour and when I did, I was in the hospital with my parents were standing at the foot of my hospital bed.

My father looked upset.

My mother looked livid.

No matter how I explained, or how I tried to reason with her, she blamed everything that had happened that night on me. My father sat silent and red faced, either from anger or sadness. I couldn't tell. All that I remember is that he sat completely quite while my mother ripped away the last shred of self-confidence that James had left within me.

Another $50,000 later my dreams were totally gone, and I was back to the sadistic physical therapist to endure another round of torture.

The depression returned.

I threw myself into my last year of study and graduated top of my class. The accolades didn't matter to my mother. Nothing did at that point. Renee and Charlie got a divorce. And of course, she blamed that on me as well.

Renee and I never got along following my first surgery and after my second and my college graduation, I moved out of my mother's house and in with Charlie. He had moved to a small town in Washington State called Forks. Charlie was able to get a job there as police chief. In the end, it all worked out for the best.

Charlie and I didn't really have a great father/daughter relationship. We just were two people who happened to be related in that manner. Our conversations consisted of no more than a few words. I liked it like that. He didn't have to answer to me, nor I him. I truly felt alone and I was okay with that.

When I moved to Forks I got a job as a behavior analyst for a non-profit hospital that helped people with brain injury. It wasn't a glamorous job, it wasn't what I loved, and it certainly didn't pan out like I had expected. But it was money. And besides, I was anything but glamorous. I was a shell of a former person. My spark was gone, my desire to do anything was completely shot to shit. So why wouldn't I wipe asses, and clean up urine? I was just going through the motions until the next big, 'fuck with Bella' moment crashed into my life.

I played a little soccer then, just a fraction of the amount that I played before the second surgery. But something inside me wouldn't let me give it up. I tried to hang up my cleats, a thousand times I tried. But I couldn't. I justified the unconscious desire as the need to retain any resemblance to a figure. I had no curves, James reminded me repeatedly of that, but I didn't want to get overweight. Poppa Swan died of a heart attack from being overweight and I didn't need that glimmer of light to focus on me.

A few months later, I stumbled across an ad in the local paper that changed my life, or at least its direction.

**"OPEN TRYOUTS for the CONNECTICUT STORM WOMENS PROFESSIONAL SOCCER TEAM"**

**"MAY 3RD, 3PM at ****University Field****"**

**"Video submissions REQUIRED to be asked to participate"**

That day a fire lit in me that I didn't know I could posses. I wanted on that team, and I wanted it badly. I did everything in my power to prepare. I had 6 months to drastically change my workout routine. Not wanting to make the same mistakes for a third goddamn time, I went to the local medical supply store and bought 2 extremely sturdy freedom braces for my knees. Whenever I wore them I had to laugh at myself because I kind of looked like a living incarnation of the bionic woman.

I worked hard. Really fucking hard again.

The nail in the coffin about this whole ordeal was that I could only get a trial if my video was good enough.

Yes, they had cuts for those who made the cuts.

So, I ran 10-15 miles a day, pushing my body to acquire a super human endurance level. I used the weights at Charlie's house to shape my body so that I could support my injuries as best as possible. If I wasn't going to be good enough, I wanted it to be because there were ladies out there more talented than myself. James' words constantly echoed through my brain while I prepared. I didn't want my godforsaken injuries to be the wall in my way. So when I wasn't working at the hospital, I was running drills. Cone to cone, shooting patterns, deconstructing game play and playing in another indoor league.

At one of my more competitive games, I set up a tri-pod and recorded all 90 minutes of game play. I had a fantastic game. It was a shut-out and I had 6 goals and 4 assists. When the game concluded, I walked back over to the camera, gripped the lens with both my hands, smiled slightly and mustered up the courage to wink while looking straight into the camera. The next day, I said a small prayer to the soccer gods and sent it away to Connecticut, sealed in an envelope with all of my greatest hopes and dreams.

That was all three weeks ago, and my stomach has been unsettled ever since. I think that calling it unsettled is probably saying it sweetly. I think Charlie might actually believe that I'm pregnant because I'm vomiting all the time. There's no chance in hell that I'm pregnant, since the only guy that I was with had been James... and that was over a year ago. Unless, the return receipt from the package I sent to Connecticut was really a divine pregnancy.

I think not.

No. I did not tell Charlie.

I did not tell him that I'm hoping to get a trial with a Women's Professional Soccer team. He will think I'm out of my mind, and he'd probably kill me if he found out. "You're body can't handle it Bells, you should just give it up". Yep, that's what he'd say.

No. I did not tell Renee. Hell would free over because I mentioned any of this to my mother.

This would be my victory, or my defeat. I was either going to die as a poop cleaner and toileting professional, or I was going to play soccer. I can't let it go. It's inside me. It'd be like betraying my very genetic make-up.

I thought all these things as I sped home from the late afternoon game. All I wanted to do was get to my computer, to the mailbox, and to the phone. I had to find out if I'd be given a shot. I was hoping for a phone call, but I'd take anything at this point. I left all the means to communicate with me in the letter I sent with the tape. I didn't know how they would get in touch with me. I just knew the date they were making their decisions.

"Please God... please, please, please, please", I begged aloud. I felt slightly overwhelmed with emotion. My throat had that pre-tears salty taste, and my hands gripping the steering wheel started to shake violently.

I pulled into the driveway and saw that the house was still dark. Charlie must still be at work. Not unusual, and actually I was really thankful that he wasn't there. I wanted to do this alone.

I slowly walked into the house. I had to calm myself, and control each step. If I hadn't, I'm fairly sure I would have knocked the walls of the house down to get to the telephone.

I approach slowly and saw the light blinking on the receiver.

There was a message.

I was done controlling my legs. For the third time today, my body reacted of its own accord. I rushed to get the message on the phone to play. My hands continued to shake and my breathing had spurred to a frantic pace.

"Good evening, this message is for Ms. Isabella Swan. This is Carlisle Cullen, manager of the Connecticut Storm Women's soccer team. We received your trial submission, and I have to say that I, the trainers and the coaching staff are extremely impressed. We would like to invite you to come to Connecticut in 2 weeks for a trial..."

I didn't hear the rest of the message because my body went limp and I blacked out.

One of the finer moments in my life.


	2. Chapter 2 Awkward Confessions

Chapter Two - Awkward Confessions

"What the...?" I mumbled groggily. My body was splayed across the ground and I had no immediate recollection of the events leading up to this compromising position.

My mind was frantically searching for a memory of an attack from some unknown intruder, or the usual occurrence of me tripping and slamming my head against something. That latter would account for the all too familiar throbbing sensation creeping up through the back of my eyelids.

The goddamn Bella gremlin must be taking up tap dancing this week.

I tried to recall what I could last remember. I remembered that I came through the door, rushed over to the phone and checked… it for... messages.

I pinched myself. I needed to make sure that I was completely awake and not still passed out like an ass on the floor. The images crashed into my brain with the force of a out of control wrecking ball.

I secured a trial. I was going to trying out for a Women's Professional Soccer team.

_Holy shit._ Was the first thought that crossed my mind as I tried to lift my body off the ground and put my head between my knees. It felt like the gremlin wasn't performing her latest rendition of the Lord of the Dance in my head anymore. The little shit had traveled down through my body and was currently performing laps in the contents of my stomach. My suspicions were validated when a wave of nausea took over my body and I felt the uncontrollable urge to vomit.

I wish I had been that lucky. Unfortunately, I had not had the chance to eat very much. All I got was dry heaves.

I went into the bathroom to splash some cool water on my face. The soothing caress of the stream was unbelievably refreshing. When I lifted my face I caught sight of my appearance in the mirror. The droplets fell slowly down my face, drawing my attention to the extremely familiar flush from the boiled blood vessels in my cheeks. The dimples in my face burned more so than usual. My face looked tired, and I noticed the slight hint of a wrinkle in the corners of my eyes. I wasn't old, but life had thrown me so many hoops. I had to jump higher each time just to get through them. It was starting to take a toll on my body. As I stared into the mirror analyzing the plain Jane that looked back, I tried to read the expressions coming from the muddy brown eyes. I had to calm down, and in order to do that I needed to figure out what I was feeling.

My eyes showed a flurry of emotion.

Elation, because finally I had a real opportunity at giving my dreams a shot.

Weariness, because I felt like someone might be playing some sort of sick and twisted joke on me. My mind egged me on to call Renee and find out if she caught wind of my submission and had orchestrated some kind of grand scheme to crush my only escape from the repetitive hell that had become my life. It didn't seem like the phone call was real. Like the coaches had made some kind of mistake. Maybe they had mixed up the submissions and confused mine with someone else.

I thought that maybe I should call them because knowing my luck, that probably happened. _Silly Bella, nobody meant you_, I thought to myself.

Sadness, because I'm an idiot for dragging up the memory of my mother calling me a failure and subsequently making me doubt myself. I remembered that night clearly. Most vivid were the sensory memories of the smell of fresh tears and the sound of my uncontrollable sobs after my mother confessed her disappointment in me.

Anger, because I could see in the face of the woman glaring back at me mimic the one surfacing in my memory of that vile night with Renee. I had promised myself a very long time ago that I would not get back to that depressing point again; just the thought of how she affected me was killing my semi-elated buzz. When she confessed that she wished that her daughter had not failed her and her family, I became a shell of my former self.

Soulless and lifeless; nothing brought me happiness at that point in my life and I never, ever, wanted to go back there.

Determination flashed through my eyes. I sure as hell could not let Renee, a woman I had not spoken to in years, my father, James or anyone else fuck with me this time. I wanted the chance to fail because others on the field had proved themselves to be better than me, and not because I failed myself through lack of preparation, self-deprecation or injury.

_No I will not. Not this time._

I would give this trial everything that I possessed within me. If I walked away unsuccessful, then I would deal with that after I got on the plane home and left with my head held high.

I finished washing the clammy swear off my face and went into the kitchen to grab some food and come up with a game plan. I threw a salad together and popped a piece of salmon smothered with gorgonzola cheese and dill into the oven. Charlie wouldn't be home for a few hours and he didn't like salmon. Hopefully, the fishy smell would leave the kitchen by the time he would be home.

Sitting at the small kitchen table with my wine, salmon and salad, I started drafting my approach to May third.

I would have to run at least twenty five miles each week for the next two weeks, and only run three the day before the trial. I would also need to call out of work for the two weeks before and after the trial, book a hotel and flight to Connecticut, and run drills twice a day. I wanted to be able to stand out from the rest of the athletes participating that day. I needed to make sure that I did not leave any room for the trainers and coaches to question my abilities or talent. Everything needed to be perfect for all the pieces to finally fall into place.

Tomorrow I would start my preparation. I could even enlist from Ross, but I didn't think that he could really help me with anything that would give me an edge over the competition.

_You will do this yourself Bella, you will or you'll fail_.

I cleared my plate, finished my wine and chugged down a bottle of water before I made my way upstairs to the shower with high hopes that I could wash away the grime of the game and relax my sore muscles. Only a hot shower would prepare me for my last peaceful night of sleep for a long while.

Tomorrow would be the first step towards the rest of my life.

_I really need a freaking massage_.

************************************************************************

The hospital was not too happy that I would be taking the time off, but frankly I really didn't give a shit. When I was not working at the hospital, I was on the soccer field. As a result, I had a crap load of vacation time that I had not taken. I planned on going to the world cup in South Africa next year, but I really did not want to go alone. I kind of help a secret hope that I would have someone special to go with by then. Along side that silent prayer was the wishful thinking that I could be over this crap that James had left me with.

_Wishful thinking Dummy; _I could not escape the fact that I was always my own worst enemy.

I took one month off of work, giving me two weeks before and after the catastrophic event to prepare and subsequently recover from what was, without a doubt, going to be one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.

_Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Why can't I just get over my insecurities!_ I vaguely remembered a Sports Psychology course I took that mentioned positive mental imagery. I don't know how I managed to nab an 'A' in that course, because I failed miserably in transitioning anything that the three thousand dollars in credits had gotten me. _Fuck it, at least I'm being prepared. If I don't make the cut, I've gotten myself plenty of time to bask in my own misery. _

Before I would set out for Connecticut, I would have to stock my freezer with the only men in my life that had never failed to put a smile on my face. Thank you, Ben and Jerry.

For the last week and a half, I ate, drank and slept soccer. Not all together different from my normal routine, but at least now it was in preparation for exposing my potential to critics who would make or break my future. I would wake up in the morning and shower, and after I would completely ignore my external appearance. I shut out the little bit of beautification that I had learned from a fashion magazine, that was currently taking up residence and collecting dust under my bed, for a later time when it really mattered. Every day I drove to the high school and trained for hours on end, coming home at its conclusion with a sore body that was swollen and in dire need of an ice bath.

I made arrangements to stay at the Hilton hotel nearest to University Field. My good friend, Tom Tom, had given me explicit directions from Bradley airport to the hotel. It should only take forty five minutes for each trip. I decided that I did not want to use a shuttle to get around because I figured it would be easier for me to find a place to relax the night before the trial. It would be much easier to find the local watering hole if I did not have to rely on a bus service to quell my anticipated nerves.

My flight was scheduled to leave this Thursday evening out of Sea-Tac Airport. I would be in Connecticut by one o'clock in the morning and at the hotel by two. I'd be able to sleep in until ten, and then have to get up to do a warm down. I wanted to get to see the field before the actual trial. I needed to have a quiet discussion with the soccer gods before I would set foot on that field for anything other than quiet contemplation. I thought that if I got one moment to stand in the middle of the field, breathe in its smell and imagine myself playing there, I would be okay to go.

My bags were packed and my iPod was fully charged.

The only problem that I now faced, besides my impending doom on the pitch, was Charlie. I did not tell Charlie a single thing about anything. _What the hell am I going to tell him?_ All I knew was that I needed to figure it out fast before he came home tonight, otherwise I would be up shits creek without a paddle in a boat with a slow leak.

_Speak of the devil_. Charlie's cruiser rolled into the driveway, and the familiar heavy footfalls of my fathers gate resounded on the old wood of his porch.

"Hey Bells. What smells so good?" My father said when he came through the door. I figured that if I told my father I was leaving the state for a few days, I had better give myself the best chance of getting on his good side. So I threw together a meat lasagna and had it ready to go for him.

_Now all you have to do is get him to take off his gun_.

"Char-- I mean, Dad, why don't you change and get comfortable, then come eat in the kitchen", I called out to him while portioning out food for his and my own plates.

Charlie walked into the kitchen still packing.

"I haven't eaten anything since lunch kid, I'm starving. You made my favorite? You tryin' to butter me up or somethin'?" Charlie sighed and with a foreboding 'thunk', sat in his spot at the table in front of a heaping pile of steaming meat, cheese and pasta. "You've been off work for the last two weeks Bells, and you've been ruining the high school field with your cleats."

I was struck dumb. I stopped fussing with the dishes in the sink and held my breath in anticipation of what I knew was coming.

"The Athletic Director called on Monday and said you've been running all kinds of hard, back and forth across their field. He said you were digging so hard that you left some divots he'd never be able to fill. He threatened to send a bill." He stopped speaking for a moment to shovel his first bite food into his mouth. My altogether dumbstruck face morphed into something that resembled sheer terror.

Fuck. Me. He. Knows.

I anticipated that within moments the verbal assault would begin.

Instead, nothing came. All that could be heard were the noises he made with his fork against the plate. After a few more seconds, he spoke again, more calmly than before.

"Sounds to me like you've been trainin' up for somethin;" He was staring at his plate instead of eating his food, and he gripped the fork so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were blanched white. This was not a good sign.

_Here it comes_, _breath Bella_. I shut my eyes in preparation for the onslaught of tears.

"You... you, uh, did the same thing last time. The football coaches called me during a game I was watchin', and damn near took my ear off because you tore their field to shreds", Charlie chuckled lightheartedly. My body relented from its frozen position and turned slowly, farther away from his direction. He was going to snap, and I didn't want to look at him in the eye when he started his tirade.

His fork came down on his plate with a slight clank, and I heard the chair push back slightly from the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Charlie was resting his elbows on his knees and had his head bent towards the floor. He looked exhausted. My heart raced in my chest, and my hands began to shake as violently as they did on Notification Day.

Guilt washed over me. _I should have told him. I should apologize for putting him through everything... all of it, for all the years. He must be so disappointed in me. Just like Renee still is. God, I'm so sorry Charlie_. I apologized to him in my head because I just couldn't get my mouth to say the words.

"Bella, we don't talk to much you and me. I'm no good at stuff like that. But it doesn't mean that you're not... you're, you're not on my mind".

"Dad..." I turned towards him quickly to interrupt. I didn't want him to yell and shout at me like Renee did. I knew I fucked up all those years ago. The little Bella gremlin still screamed at me. Even now, even after all my training and work, the damn spawn shouted loud and clear that I wasn't, nor would I ever be good enough_. I'm a failure._ I was already completely aware of that fact. But there was something inside of me that would not let go of the dream. Maybe it was a hidden part of my unconscious that was a sucker for pain. Maybe it was just another gremlin for my other lonely shoulder. I had no clue. What I did know, was that I did not want to be told again that I was a failure. I was utterly terrified that the little part of me that was holding onto the old Bella and the farfetched picture of perfection were going to disappear. Every molecule of motivation that I had stored up to use at this trial would flitter away and disappear on me. I did not want to hear that same speech again, and especially not so soon before I was about to give it my one last shot.

If I heard those words leave my fathers lips I knew I'd be lost, and the last pebble set atop my shoulders would cripple my legs permanently.

"Dad, please, whatever you are going to say…" Charlie cut me off.

"No. Isabella, listen to me. Whatever it is that you are doing, whatever is going on, I want you to know that I know you are the best. Baby girl, you always have been. When your knees broke, when your body gave out, I felt it. My body broke when yours did and my heart shattered when I heard your mother say those things to you. You're a natural on that field Bells, everything that happened to you happened for a reason. You are such a strong person, and I think that you are the only one who could have handled it. Any lesser of a person would have crumbled under the pressure."

"Charl--", I was speechless and I felt the trickle of a tear fall down my cheek. The words were stuck in my throat as I took in the distressed look on my fathers face. I was absolutely stunned into silence with these turn of events. My father never said things like that to me.

A thought occured to me. _He must be dying or something_.

Before I could activate the filter in my head, the words escaped my mouth.

"Dad, are you dying?"

"What? Bells, what? No, I'm not dying. What? Why? Why would you think that?"

"I don't know Dad, it's just...", my eyes had shown that my mind was searching frantically to rectify the disparity between how I thought this conversation was going to turn out, and what actually had transpired. The words he said and the words I had anticipated him to say fought for dominance in my mind. _Is this really happening?_

I couldn't look at him. I had to look anywhere but. I was on the precipice of breaking down, and I knew that the look on his face, if I chanced a glance, would send me flying over the edge without a rope to save me.

"Bella, let me just get this out." Charlie raised his head to look at me. "Look at me Bella. Please, just look at me." When my eyes met his I catapulted over the ledge and the tears flowed without hindrance from my eyes. I was a total goner. "When Renee said those things to you, I didn't know how to react. I never thought that the woman I married, that the woman, who gave birth to the best thing that has ever happened to me, could have been so cruel. But Bells..." Too quick for me to notice, either because I was preoccupied with the onslaught of tears, or because it was obvious I inherited some of my agility from my father, he had abandoned his place at the table and was standing and moving towards me. He approached me and placed his hands on my shoulders. "Bells, what she said, none of it was true. Baby, you were born to fly on that field. It's something I don't understand. Your calling is on that field with that stupid ball, dribbling circles around all those other less talented idiots out there. Not here, not in that hospital, not friendless, and not alone. Do not let your past and the mistakes that your mother made hold you back."

I'd have to have a discussion soon with my body, especially when my mind wasn't taking a freakin' vacation. Once again, for more times than I would like to admit, my body acted of its own accord. I threw my arms around his waist and hugged him as if I was clinging onto life. It had been close to ten years since the last time I embraced my father. The relief, comfort and safety I felt in his arms washed over me as I let his words sink in.

He wasn't disappointed in me.

He believed in me.

He did not think I was a failure.

"Dad, I..." I was hard to get a word out between my sobs. _I'm such a fucking baby. Keep it simple stupid_. I could take a fucking hit on the field without crying, but it was apparent that I couldn't respond to my father without the use of a fire hydrant. "Thanks Dad, it means a lot to hear you say that." _About time, you wuss._

As always, I was my own worse enemy.

We stayed like that for a few minutes. When he let go, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. It was a bitter sweet moment. On one hand, for reasons I cannot explain, it felt a little easier to breath. On the other, his words were disconcerting and because of my own insecure nature, I was searching for anything that Charlie could gain by admitting such a confession. Nothing came to mind. All I could do in that moment was to ride this wave until it landed me on a deserted beach; alone again.

I wiped my eyes before looking up and speaking, "Geesh Dad, did my cooking really suck so much that you felt bad for me or something?" We both laughed a little while I grabbed the plate I had made and sat at my respective place at the table. I hoped that he would follow suit and eat with me. He hadn't moved from the spot of our encounter until his stomach got the best of him and released a loud growl.

As we sat there and ate together, I felt the atmosphere shift between us. Usually we both avoided conversation and anything remotely emotional. There was always this wall up between the two of us, neither having the strength or courage to bring it down. Now, now it felt like there was a vast open space just waiting to be filled. It was a hopeful and happy atmosphere, and so much better than what had existed between us before. I noticed that the tears had stopped a while ago and that I was actually smiling a genuine smile.

"So, what is it Bells? What the heck is going on?" Charlie barely made out between mouthfuls. His stomach had obviously taken temporary control over his bodily functions. He went at his food like it was his last meal.

"Ummmm, well..." _where should I start_? "A few weeks ago I came across an advertisement that called for female soccer athletes to send in a play tape for the chance to try out for a professional team", I let my gaze fall back to the plate of food that I hadn't touched. Even with this different air between us, I was still scared that he would lose it. That he would jump up and tell me to get over the childish dream that I still held clung to, and to move on. I waited, and yet again, the insults never came. I continued after a minute, "I sent a video in after I saw the ad, and two weeks ago I got called to fly out to Connecticut for a trial with the team out there." I took a hesitant bite of my food, hoping to give him a minute to absorb everything.

He said nothing. It was worse than having him spew insults at me.

The skin between his eyebrows creased. Charlie was thinking extremely hard about something, and I had no idea what it was. However, his fork was still force feeding his mouth.

"When's the tryout?" I barely made out the garble of words through the chewed food in his mouth.

"Well, you weren't wrong about me trying to butter you up Dad. I was trying to find a way to tell you that I was leaving tomorrow night. My flight leaves from Seattle at ten at night." I was trying to lighten the mood again. I cold feel that the wall that was trying to erect itself again.

"Tomorrow?" His fork and stilled and his free hand ran through his hair and rested at the base of his neck. "Do you want me to come?"

_What? Huh? Come again?_

Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever thought that Charlie would want to come with me to Connecticut. I wasn't prepared to answer the question.

I thought for a moment.

And then the reality hit me.

_No._

"Dad, as much as I think I could use your support through this, I think I need to do this by myself. I feel like if I don't, I'm going to always wonder if I was doing this for myself or for someone else." I felt horrible for saying that to him, but it was the truth and I wanted to be honest with him. I needed to stay away from distractions otherwise I would lose sight of my goal. I needed to make sure I was doing this for the right reasons. And because of that fact, I needed to go it alone.

"I understand Bells. Can I at least drop you off at the airport?" The tentative wall had completely dissipated again.

"Sure Dad, that'd be a big help", I smiled at him.

"Do you need anything? Are you ready? Are you excited? Are you nervous? Do your knees hurt..." I was bombarded with a thousand questions from the most unlikely source. It was strangely comforting.

The rest of dinner progressed in the same fashion. Charlie asked me more questions than I had been asked on all my college finals combined, many of which I did not have answers to. I did not know anything about the team, the players, or even the coaches. I just wanted to head to Connecticut, play a bit of soccer with some talented people and then come home and hope for the best.

After dinner, Charlie told me that he would clean up. He shooed me upstairs, saying that I needed my rest if I was flying out tomorrow. Before I left the room, I stopped, turned and spoke the words that I had wanted to be able to say without feeling uncomfortable for years.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?" He said absentmindedly while trying to figure out how to operate the spray nozzle on his sink.

"I don't tell you often... well, ever actually. But, I love you dad. Thanks for everything." My head was down, and I was blushing furiously.

Charlie stopped fussing with the nozzle and came over to give me another hug.

_Two in one night, must be some kind of record._

"I love you too, Bells. I'm so sorry for everything, ok? I'm so proud of you. No matter what happens. Now go to bed and get out of my kitchen." He released me and went back to his ongoing war with the kitchen appliances.

I laughed at the mental image of him garnishing armor to do the dishes, and made my way upstairs to get some sleep.

My steps up the stairs had a slight bounce, and in many ways were lighter than they had ever been.

I thought about his face at the hospital on that horrific night. I remembered his face shaped with an unmistakable look of anguish tainting his features. But as I lay contemplating its meaning, it dawned on me that he might, just might, not have been upset at me. He might have been sad for me, and upset at something else, and that something else just might be the other person that had made that night just as miserable as losing the ability to walk.

_Renee_.

As sick as it sounded it my head when I thought of her taking the blame for my father's anger, I couldn't help but hope it was true.

I fell asleep very easily that night. For the first time in a few years, I dreamt about dancing with my father as little girl. I stood on his toes because I was too uncoordinated to do it by myself. When I was that age, I felt totally carefree and loved unconditionally. Not once was I disturbed with nightmares of failing miserably on Saturday. Everything was already starting to come back to its rightful place in the universe. I had my father back.

I just hoped that it didn't hinge on the outcome of Saturdays trial.


End file.
